_Prof. Phil._ No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse; and whatever is not verse, is prose. _M. Jour._ And when we speak, what is that, then? _Prof. Phil._ Prose. _M. Jour._ What! when I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my nightcap," is that prose? _Prof. Phil._ Yes, sir. _M. Jour._ Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love"; but I would have this worded in a gallant manner, turned genteelly. _Prof. Phil._ Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her the torments of a-- _M. Jour._ No, no, no, I don't wish any of that. I simply wish what I tell you--"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love." _Prof. Phil._ Still, you might amplify the thing a little. _M. Jour._ No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put. _Prof. Phil._ They may be put first of all, as you have said, "Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love;" or else, "Of love die make me, fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes;" or, "Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair Marchioness, die;" or, "Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair Marchioness, make me;" or else, "Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love." _M. Jour._ But of all these ways, which is the best? _Prof. Phil._ The one you said--"Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love." _M. Jour._ Yet I have never studied, and I did all right off at the first shot. The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" is a very amusing comedy throughout. From "Les Femmes Savantes" ("The Learned Women")--"The Blue-Stockings," we might perhaps freely render the title--we present one scene to indicate the nature of the comedy. There had grown to be a fashion in Paris, among certain women high in social rank, of pretending to the distinction of skill in literary criticism, and of proficiency in science. It was the Hotel de Rambouillet reduced to absurdity. That fashionable affectation Moliere made the subject of his comedy, "The Learned Women."